Chapter 128: The Old Broomstick
Today was Friday—and their long-awaited flying lesson was scheduled for the afternoon.
In the Great Hall, Ron was still pestering Harry with questions about football.
Last night, after dinner, Ron, Harry, and several others had cornered Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, their Gryffindor dormmates, eagerly asking what flying felt like. Neville, sitting nearby, had perked up with interest too. He'd never touched a broom in his life—his grandmother always insisted that Neville could cause a disaster even while standing still on flat ground.
Most of the students had expressed excitement and awe at the thought of flying.
But one person stood out—Dean Thomas. Like Michael Corner, Dean was dark-skinned and had a Muggle upbringing. To him, riding broomsticks was "a bit silly" and nowhere near as fun as football.
He even pulled out a poster of the West Ham football team, clearly prepared for this argument. Most of the students ignored Dean's words—they were more fascinated by the fact that the people on the poster didn't move.
But Ron Weasley was different. He got caught up in the conversation, listening intently to Dean's explanation of the rules of football. After hearing about a game where no one was allowed to fly and there was only one ball, Ron exclaimed, "How is that exciting at all?!"
After finishing his homework that evening, Ron turned to the only person he knew who also had a Muggle background—Alexander Smith.
Ron was determined to understand what was supposedly so fun about football.
Now, during breakfast the next day, Ron was still asking Alexander and Harry about it. Harry tried his best to recall the matches he'd glimpsed on the telly when he was younger. But even though there had been a television in the Dursleys' home, Dudley never let him near it. Every time Harry even approached, Dudley would fake-cry to make it seem like Harry had committed some unspeakable crime.
So aside from a bit of football in primary school, Harry actually didn't know all that much.
He had already told Ron everything he could think of.
But ever since joining Ravenclaw, Ron had developed a stubborn curiosity about strange topics. Now, he seemed genuinely determined to grasp what made football enjoyable.
"Harry, just make something up already," Lisa Dupin sighed. She looked weary. "He won't stop until he gets an answer. He pestered me for a whole afternoon once because I said no one in my family understood Dumbledore's curse."
Just then, Ron came back to the table, muttering to himself about why the meat and potato pie had been placed so far down the buffet line.
Fortunately, it was almost time for class.
Potions was next, and Ron was still very much intimidated by Professor Snape. The fear seemed to snap him out of his football obsession, and he followed the group down into the dungeons.
When they entered the Potions classroom, Dudley Dursley made a point of sitting far away from Harry. At Hogwarts, the two cousins rarely spoke and behaved more like strangers.
A few moments later, Professor Snape swept into the room, his long black robes billowing like a shadow behind him.
He scanned the room with his usual cold expression, the only warmth showing when his eyes briefly lingered on Harry. Otherwise, his demeanor was icy, as though the world owed him something.
He unrolled the student list and began reading out names, matching them to faces as he went.
"I have a question," Snape said, his voice sharp. "Why do we use pewter cauldrons instead of brass or copper?"
He was looking directly at Harry.
"Of the three common materials, potion efficiency declines from copper, to brass, to pewter," Harry replied smoothly. "But since you and other advanced wizards are capable, copper is best. It's also needed for potions that must be brewed quickly."
Snape gave a brief nod. "Very well. Weasley—why can't you be more like Potter? Associating with clever people doesn't seem to help you. I almost forgot—Ravenclaw, two points."
After class, Ron looked completely deflated.
"Why is Snape always picking on me? Harry, can you ask him for me?"
"Forget it," Harry said. "He probably just sees you goofing off."
Neville leaned over and whispered, "Maybe he read that awful article... and actually believed it."
"Damn that Rita Skeeter," Ron muttered with a pained expression.
At one o'clock sharp, Alexander and the rest of the Ravenclaws hurried down the stone steps to the field outside the castle, ready for their very first flying lesson.
It was a breezy, clear afternoon. The sun shone gently as they crossed the gently sloping lawn, the blades of grass swaying beneath their feet. Beyond the open field stood the edge of the Forbidden Forest, its dark trees rustling ominously in the wind.
The field was still empty when they arrived. Hufflepuff hadn't shown up yet. On the grass, twenty broomsticks were laid out neatly in two rows.
But these weren't sleek, high-performance broomsticks. They were clearly old and worn-out models.
Alexander frowned. He recalled a Daily Prophet article about Minister Fudge trying to "reallocate unnecessary expenses" at Hogwarts. Apparently, the flying lesson brooms had been deemed one of those expenses.
Fudge had claimed that money was being directed toward "more vital needs." But clearly, what that meant was: old, glitchy brooms for first-years.
The Ravenclaws eyed the brooms warily. Some shook when you flew too high. Others always veered slightly to the left. A few simply refused to descend smoothly, hovering until they sputtered to the ground like tired insects.
Soon, the Hufflepuff students arrived—Dudley was leading the pack.
Somehow, despite his rocky start in magic, Dudley had clawed his way back into a leadership role among his housemates. It helped that he was the Junior Southeastern Heavyweight Boxing Champion.
Alexander narrowed his eyes.
Strangely enough, Dudley's magical abilities—initially unstable due to the transplant—seemed to be gradually stabilizing. Was it Lily's protective spell that made the difference?
At this point, Dudley already had the magical talent of a full-grown wizard, and his physical strength was still that of a boxer. If it weren't for Alexander's own presence in this timeline, the story might as well be called The Daily Life of Dudley Dursley at Hogwarts.
While Alexander mulled this over, their flying instructor arrived.
It was Madam Hooch.
She had short gray hair and piercing yellow eyes that resembled a hawk's.
"All right, what are you waiting for?" she barked. "Stand by a broomstick—quickly now!"
And with that, the flying lesson began—with no introductions necessary.
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